


all tomorrow's parties

by flibbertygigget



Category: Doctor Who (2005), The Thick of It (TV)
Genre: Cunnilingus, Episode: s03e03 (The Thick of It), F/M, Femdom, Hair-pulling, Light Dom/sub, Party Conference, Politics, Porn With Plot, Semi-Public Sex, Swearing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-06
Updated: 2021-02-06
Packaged: 2021-03-18 01:42:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,447
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29235498
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flibbertygigget/pseuds/flibbertygigget
Summary: In which there are narrowly avoided political catastrophes, cunning manipulations, cocktail dresses, speechwriters who shouldn't have access to government laptops, and one semi-public liaison.
Relationships: Clara Oswin Oswald/Malcolm Tucker
Comments: 2
Kudos: 20





	all tomorrow's parties

**Author's Note:**

> The usual The Thick of It warnings for graphic sexual imagery and some rather problematic analogies apply.

“Well, it’s official,” Malcolm said, looking as though he was three seconds away from throwing his phone at the wall. “The health stats are fucked. The arsehole pulled them from a blog rather than the fucking government he works for.”

“Fucked?” said Clara. “Like, completely fucked? Can’t you ask the ONS-”

“I tried that, they don’t have the proper health stats in yet. Which of course means that the central point of Tom’s fucking speech is dead on arrival. We keep the false stats in, we’re arsefucked by the press; we take them out, we get arsefucked anyways for being optimistic with no fucking evidence.  _ Fuck _ me.”

“Can you use last year’s stats?”

“They’re shit.”

“Shit.” Clara bit her bottom lip, rolling it between her teeth as she tried to think of a solution. Malcolm had to feign interest in his Blackberry to keep his brain for short-circuiting at the sight. “Right, what do you need me to do?”

“I don’t need  _ you _ to do anything. You’re here as my plus-one, not to mop up the Government’s fucking messes.”

“Come on, we’re partners. Just tell me what needs to be done.”

“Well, first off, I’m going to find that fucking speechwriter, cut his balls off, and saute them with some butter and rosemary. Then, I’ll feed them to him, along with a big helping of my cock. Fellate me well enough and he might keep his job until we next need a scapegoat.”

“Will that help?”

“It’ll make me feel better.” Malcolm sighed. “No, what I need right now is another angle. There’s nothing to do but scrap Tom’s speech and start over. Sauteed balls can wait.”

“Right,” said Clara. “I’ll find you your angle, you concentrate on putting out the fires.”

“What? No. No no no.”

“Why not?”

“Because I’m the boss and I’m saying I can handle it. Go bother an Education Minister or something.”

“Get me a copy of the D of E’s speech, and I won’t have to.” The guilt that flashed across Malcolm’s face would have been shocking to anyone else. Clara just smirked slightly.

“I was going to get to that. It’s just this Tom thing, and before that the  _ cunting  _ Work and Pensions office-”

“Shh, Malc, I get it. But you’ve got a lot of balls in the air, and so that’s why I should be in charge of figuring out what the PM’s going to say.” Malcolm opened his mouth to argue, but she was already walking down the hallway. “I’ll text you when I figure it out.”

“... _ Christ _ ,” Malcolm spat under his breath, and then he began typing furiously on his Blackberry. It would be a cold day in Hell before he admitted that he was grateful, but at least he could get her a little inside info. There ought to be some perks to dating the worst man in Whitehall. 

* * *

“... right, is there any department that’s published anything in the past six months, or should we go for a human interest angle.” 

Ollie Reeder paused as he turned the corner, Julie Price just a half-step behind him. He didn’t recognize the woman who was sprawled across the hallway, phone clutched against her head, and Ollie would have  _ definitely _ remembered her. Must be some new, over-eager assistant press something-or-other. 

“Well, if the building incident reports are good, they’re fine,” the woman continued, and Ollie winced. Awkward. “It’s dry as the damn Sahara, but at least it’s something.” Ollie cleared his throat, and the woman glanced at him. “I’ll call you back.”

“Oh, no need, sorry, just excuse us,” Ollie said.

“No, it’s my fault,” the woman said, standing up and brushing imaginary wrinkles from her skirt. “I shouldn’t have been blocking the entire hallway. It’s a madhouse in here, isn’t it? I had to go up three floors just to find a quiet hallway to make my calls.”

“Yeah,” Ollie said. “Erm, if you don’t mind me asking, what was that all about?” The woman grimaced.

“SNAFU with one of the speeches,” she said. “It has to be rewritten from scratch. I’m Clara, by the way,” she held out her hand, and Ollie shook it, “Clara Oswald.”

“Ollie Reeder,” Ollie said. Her lips quirked in a strange half-smile. “I don’ t think I’ve seen you around before.”

“No, you wouldn’t have,” Clara said enigmatically. She turned to Julie. "Hey, sorry about that again…"

"Julie Price," Julie said, shaking Clara's hand. 

"Oh, right, I heard about your husband," Clara said. "I'm so terribly sorry." Not a hint of awkwardness, Ollie noticed, just surprisingly genuine sorrow and concern. 

"It's been just terrible," Julie said. "I've been trying to do what I can, but…" She sniffed.

"I understand," Clara said. "My boyfriend - we'd been dating for years, and - well, a driver didn't notice that the light had turned red. It was horrible, even worse because there wasn't anything we could have done to prevent it. You're doing amazing work, though. You're changing things, making sure something like that will never happen again. I'm sure your husband would be glad to see that."

"Oh, he would. Always had his opinions on how the bastards were able to get around regulations, did Mark."

"Hmm," Clara said, tapping her chin with her BlackBerry. "Julie, excuse me for a moment.” She tapped out a number and started another call. “On second thought, are the building stats shit?” she said to the person on the other end of the line. “Or at least neutral?” She paused, and then she gave a slightly frightening, very predatory grin. “Excellent.” She hung up and nodded at Julie. “Well, Mrs. Price, what would you say to speaking right after the PM?”

“Wait, you work for the PM?” Ollie blurted out.

“I’m slightly freelance,” Clara said, which didn’t answer anything at all. “Mrs. Price?”

“Are you sure it’s alright?” Julie Price said. “I mean, Glenn Cullen was the one who-”

“Don’t worry; I’ll help them rewrite their little speech. You just concentrate on getting the largest audience possible for your own speech." Julie hesitated for a moment longer, but Ollie knew she'd have to be an idiot to turn down the opportunity.

"That sounds alright then," Julie said. Clara smiled, a slightly smug smile that should have been more at odds with the too-innocent picture she had presented so far.

"Perfect," she said, turning back to her BlackBerry and pressing a number. Whoever it was picked up on the first ring. "Malcolm, I've got a solution to our little problem. Julie Price is raising awareness about construction codes, and the stats last year were mediocre." She paused, and Ollie tried to wrap his head around the fact that this woman apparently had Malcolm Tucker, of all people, on speed dial. 

"Yes, yes, I'm a genius, thank you very much,” Clara said. “Now get your arse up here and get the PM’s speech on-message with Mrs. Price.” Another pause. “No, I’m not fucking kidding.” Pause. “Yeah, well, you can’t have me. I promised Ollie that I’d help his department rewrite their speech, since I kinda fucked up their plan.” The distinctive Scottish shouting on the other end of the line left Ollie with no doubt that, yeah,  _ that _ was Malcolm Tucker. Clara rolled her eyes as she listened to him lambasting her, looking remarkably calm for someone being ear-fucked.

“Sorry,” Ollie mouthed at her. Clara just rolled her eyes again.

“Are you done, Malcolm?” Pause. “Done being such an insecure cock-flapper about this.” Pause. “Yes, what did you think I meant by that?” A longer pause. “Look, I very much doubt that this kid is going to be able to seduce me, and you wouldn’t be talking about seduction if you thought he was going to do anything without my consent.” Pause. “Yeah, whatever. Just get up here.” She hung up on Malcolm, which just baffled Ollie more. He cleared his throat.

“You, uh, you work for Communications then?” he said.

“Of course not,” Clara said. Ollie was about to ask her what department she  _ did _ work for, but they were interrupted by Malcolm coming down the hallway in full Shitstorm Tucker mode. Ollie cringed slightly, trying to do his best impression of wallpaper, but Clara seemed oddly unflapped. She simply introduced Julie to Malcolm and sent them on their way, somehow avoiding the many landmines that came with dealing with the Scot. As they disappeared down the hallway, Clara turned to him with a slight smirk on her face.

“Urk,” Ollie said.

“Well,” she said, “since  _ that _ little fire’s been put out, why don’t you lead me to wherever your lot has set up camp?”

* * *

When Ollie slunk into the room behind not Julie Price but a pretty young brunette with a take-no-prisoners stride, Glenn Cullen was confused. He was even more confused when the brunette plopped down in front of Ollie’s laptop and barked at him to unlock it.

“Excuse me,” Glenn said, “but what’s all this then?” Ollie gestured at the woman with a helpless sort of squiggle. “Are you even supposed to  _ be _ here?”

“Of course I’m supposed to be here,” the woman said. “Your charity case has been commandeered by the PM-”

“More like by Malcolm,” Ollie muttered.

“-and I’m supposed to punch up this speech into something half presentable.”

“What?” said Nicola, and Glenn winced. It wasn’t his boss’s fault that she often came off as shrill and overbearing, but he had a feeling it wouldn’t go over well with this person, whoever the hell she was. “But you can’t do that! Ollie, why would you let him do that?”

“I’m afraid Ollie didn’t get much of a choice,” the woman said. She looked up from the laptop and shot Nicola a smile. “I’m Clara Oswald, by the way. I’d say pleasure, but I have a feeling you’d quibble with that description.”

“Nicola Murray,” Nicola said faintly, “Secretary of State for-”

“Social Affairs and Citizenship, I know,” Clara Oswald said. She’d already turned back to the laptop, and her nose had crinkled slightly in disgust. “Jesus, don’t you have anyone who can string two sentences together on your staff?”

“Hey!” Ollie said. Clara’s enormous brown eyes flicked over to him for a moment before dismissing him.

“Whatever,” she said. “What are your flagship programs for the next year and your stats?”

“Uh, other tab,” Ollie said. Clara hummed and nodded, getting to work.

“Glenn, Ollie,” Nicola said, voice slightly strained, “can I speak with you privately for a moment?” It was the most transparent thing Glenn had heard in a while, but Clara either didn’t notice or didn’t care that they were clearly going to be having a gossip session. Nicola pulled them into the bathroom, which was exceedingly cramped with the three of them.

“Jesus fuck,” Ollie said.

“Who the hell is she?” Nicola asked.

“I don’t know!” Ollie said, flinging up his hands. “I was just walking down the hallway and she stole Julie! She has Malcolm on speed dial!”

“Why on earth would she have Malcolm on speed dial?” Glenn said.

“I don’t know, maybe his PA got sick of dealing with him and he replaced her with Octopussy?”

“Are they, you know,” Glenn grimaced, “fucking?”

“What, her and the old fucker? No way,” Ollie said. “She’s out of his league, and he’s probably got a popsicle for a dick.”

“Right, as fascinating as I’m sure you both find Malcolm’s dick and the places he may or may not be sticking it,” Nicola said, “can we just concentrate on the point here?”

“What point?” Ollie muttered.

“The point,” Nicola said, “that we don’t know who the hell she is and you just gave her access to a  _ government laptop _ .”

“To be fair,” Glenn said, “she does apparently have Malcolm on speed dial.” Nicola was about to argue with him, which was also fair, but they were interrupted by the distinct sound of knocking on the door of the hotel room. Nicola immediately rushed out of the bathroom, but both Glenn and Ollie hung back.

“Jesus fuck,” Ollie said. “This is a fucking mess.”

“20 quid says they’re fucking,” Glenn said.

“You’re delusional,” Ollie said, and then he flashed a grin. “You’re on.” They left the bathroom to find Malcolm and Nicola arguing in the doorway, but it only took a second for Hamish Macdeath to turn his attention to them.

“You,” he barked, “Tweedledee and Tweedledumbass, where the fuck have the updated immigration stats gone?”

“They, uh, they’re-” Glenn started.

“Nonexistent,” said Ollie.

“Fuck me,” Malcolm said. “Fine, whatever. Clara,” Clara looked up from the half-finished speech, and Malcolm hoisted up his own laptop like the spoils of barbaric war, “let the Pillsbury Doughboy do his actual job.”

“You sure, Malcolm? I’ve seen fifth formers with more coherent paragraphs,” Clara said.

“You’re a  _ teacher?” _ Ollie blurted. Clara fixed him with a look and very deliberately stood from the chair and moved instead to the foot of the bed. Malcolm joined her there, opening his laptop with something frighteningly close to eagerness. “No, but seriously, a teacher?”

“Have a problem with that?” Clara bit out, “Judging by your ability to construct a speech, I have my doubts about you ever having met one before.”

“And at a bloody comprehensive school as well, I assume?” Nicola grumbled.

“As a matter of fact, yes,” Clara said icily.

“Don’t bother with them,” Malcolm said with a theatrical wave of his hand, “look, I’ve got,” he slapped the side of the laptop, “if I can get the ruddy thing to load- Ha!” He turned the screen to her. “Ta-da!”

“Oh, brilliant,” Clara said, taking the laptop and reading whatever was on the screen as though it was the most fascinating thing she’d ever seen.

“What is it?” Glenn asked. Malcolm’s teeth flashed in a smile - not his fake charmer smile, his oh-my-god-that-shark-wants-to-eat-my-arm smile.

“Fatty’s speech,” he said. “If forewarned is forearmed, I’m giving Clara a fucking satellite laser beaming down from space. The Department for Education won’t know what hit them.” Well fuck. Glenn was totally out 20 quid.

* * *

Later that day, after a fuckton of speeches that weren’t a total fucking disaster for once, Malcolm was back in the DoSAC hotel room to watch the conference back. He should have been with Tom, probably, but that last thing he wanted was to see that cunt looking all self-satisfied in spite of the barely avoided disaster. 

If they hadn’t caught the stats cockup, if Clara hadn’t brought Julie on at the last moment - well, the Party was hanging onto power by the skin of their teeth as it was. That show of rank incompetence would have fucking sunk them for sure. Malcolm hated just about everyone in Government, but they were nothing compared to the bastards in Opposition. Malcolm was startled from his thoughts by a knock on the hotel room door. Ollie opened it and let out a squeaky “shit.” Malcolm barely had to turn to see the reason why.

“Fucksake, Clara, you’re meant to wind up Fatty, not seduce him,” he groaned.

“Oh, I’ll wind him up alright,” Clara said. Malcolm scowled. The little black dress she had chosen was simple and elegant, perfect for the type of cocktail party where she’d be confronting Fatty and twisting his arm until he was more amiable to a bit of wealth distribution via the comprehensive schools such as the one she taught at. The fact that it hugged her body perfectly and had a plunging neckline that showed off every inch of her breastbone - well, Malcolm was only human. And a human who knew  _ exactly _ what kind of things Clara would do to him with a large and rather expensive hotel room available.

“Just make sure that you keep out of pawing range,” Malcolm grumbled. Clara snorted.

“Like I'd let him catch me,” she said.

* * *

By the time Clara had cornered the Secretary of State for the Department for Education into some kind of basic human decency, she’d flirted her way through two glasses of incredibly expensive champagne and was feeling nicely smug. The fact that the man who’d used his plus-one on her was glaring at anyone in a ten-foot radius and hovering like a great bloody bird of prey was just a bonus. Still, Clara thought that she might show him a  _ little _ mercy.

Malcolm’s mouth was on her throat the moment she pulled him into an abandoned hallway. She gasped as his teeth scraped against her skin, one hand scrabbling at the short hairs at the back of his head while the other tugged at his bowtie.

“Wanted to do this all day,” he growled as he shoved her against the boring beige wall. “Seeing you in -  _ fuck _ \- in that dress just made it worse. Lucky I’m such an old cunt, otherwise I’d have been walking around that stupid party with an erection the size of Big Ben.” One of his hands was already pushing aside the neckline of her dress and kneading her exposed breast, while the other was beneath the hem, caressing her inner thigh and teasing the edges of her black lace panties.

“Malcolm-” she gasped. She grabbed at his hair, wrenching him from her throat to her breast. He took her nipple in his mouth, all swirling tongue and suction and  _ teeth _ . She twisted his hair approvingly and he  _ moaned _ , sending vibrations through her breast directly to her clit. When she pulled him off her breast, he was panting, his pupils blown with pleasure.

“Fucking fuck, Clara, you’re magnificent,” he said breathlessly. Both his hands were on her thighs now, skirting around her pussy but never quite touching. Her dress had been rucked up past her waist, but she couldn’t bring herself to care. “I want to - Clara, I  _ need  _ to-” She pulled at his hair again, and he cut himself off with another moan.

“Clever boy,” she said, bracing her other hand against his shoulder so she could guide him downwards. He went to his knees easily; he always did. “Show me what that tongue of yours can do. You’ve certainly used it enough on the MPs today.” He snorted.

“That’s just work,” he said as he slid her panties down her legs. She stepped out of them, and then she bent down and put them safely in the pocket of Malcolm’s pants. They were  _ ridiculously expensive _ black lace panties, after all. Though the way he looked gobsmacked and aroused all at once was also quite gratifying. “God, Clara, I- I fucking adore you, I really do.”

“Mmm,” she said, “show me, then.” His slim, clever hands pulled her thighs apart, pinning her against the wall firmly. He bit kisses into the soft skin of her inner thighs before going to work on her pussy. His tongue was even more skilled at this than at bollocking government officials, alternating between slow, firm circles and clever little flicks at her clit. Clara gasped, her legs feeling like jelly on her low heels.

“Fuck!” she moaned when an especially well-placed flick made her lose control entirely. She dragged him closer, grinding down on his tongue desperately. She had to stop, she was probably hurting him - But, no, Malcolm was moaning as well, shoving one hand down his pants and tugging furiously. The sight of him like that, taking his pleasure as she took her own pleasure from him, was enough for her climax to rush through her. She threw her head back, thumping it against the hotel wall so hard it actually hurt a bit.

Malcolm went back to his slower ministrations, trying to prepare her for her next orgasm without oversensitizing her. She knew she was ready to go again when Malcolm came, his cry shooting through her clit like static electricity. She guided him in again, gasping as he reached around to grasp her asscheeks desperately. She rolled her hips, feeling her orgasm coming faster this time.

“Malcolm, are you-  _ Shit! _ ” Clara opened her eyes and glared at Ollie Reeder, who to his credit looked incredibly flushed and sheepish. Malcolm seemed as though he was going to pull away, but she kept a firm grip on his hair, her other hand curling possessively around the back of his neck.

“Yes?” she said. “Do you have anything  _ important _ to say?”

“Erm, no, it can wait,” Ollie said, backing away quickly. “I- er, have fun? Shit, Glenn owes me 20 quid.” Malcolm’s eyes below her couldn’t seem to decide whether to be furious or amused. 

“Don’t worry about him,” Clara said. “He’s not the one giving you everything you’ve ever wanted.”

“Fuckin’ right,” Malcolm muttered, nose still buried in her pubic hair.


End file.
